You'll Be Surprised
by Rosie Brook-Meade
Summary: Sandra's fun-packed time with Eichhorst in the winter of '89-90 hasn't been fully detailed. Until now. But how much fun can you really have with an undead Nazi who has no man-junk? You'll be surprised! (Even if you've read the Captives scenes on AO3.) This is "the weird Sandra/Eichhorst whatever the hell it is" running through Another Season, turned into a romance as prompted.
1. Chapter 1

You'll Be Surprised

 **Author's Note: Just seeing how this goes on FFN because I believe Eichhorst's fan base is broader over here. If it flops so be it.**

* * *

 _For every pit bull in a knit sweater, there must be someone who knows him well enough to see that he feels the cold keenly through his deceptively thin coat, who loves the scarred old mutt enough to make or buy the woolly jumper and who is bold enough to thread the garment over those bear trap jaws. Similarly, the vicious beast must be prepared to endure the attentions of the caregiver and suspend savaging endeavours long enough to receive this gift with weary hauteur. Perhaps he would even bow his massive head to facilitate the process. Maybe even obey the timorous "Gimme paw-paw" command so the sleeves can be placed. Possibly, he would comply readily enough to be deemed a "Good boy" and have his ragged ears tickled._

 _Ah, the proud, mighty beast and the timid, gentle lover who tamed him._

 _But this is not the story of that relationship. This is something completely different and much less edifying._

 _It's still not too late to turn back, you know…_

* * *

Eichhorst's Living Area, Stoneheart Building, Manhattan – The Morning After the Battle at Bolivar's

Thomas Eichhorst sat in the living area of his splendid apartment opposite an enormous television screen showing the news. He was regrouping after a difficult few days. Suited and made up to appear human, the vampire was getting a manicure from a handsome young man in a faceguard, wielding something like a miniature angle grinder. The beauty of Eichhorst's attendant wasn't a sexually-motivated choice but a simple luxury – Eichhorst liked to surround himself with decorative things and the boy was nothing more than an ornament. Michael was the young man's name, he seemed to recall.

Eichhorst had a good memory for names.

Numbers, too, for that matter. And there was one number he would never be able to forget.

He scowled into a mirror as he touched two healing wounds on his cheek. While A230385 hadn't directly given him those, the ultimate blame lay firmly with the old Jew, and so did Eichhorst's lust for revenge.

Abraham Setrakian…oh yes, he knew his name too, although he never used it aloud, only murmuring it softly when he was alone. The old pawnbroker had made Eichhorst look foolish time after time and his Master had begun to lose faith in him. Obviously, he would regain his place in his Führer's trust soon by dealing with his former pet personally. He amused himself during the manicure by fantasising about the different forms his retribution could take.

While Eichhorst obsessed about Setrakian, he completely disregarded another figure from his past. One whose motives concerning him were much less clear. Someone who was potentially even more dangerous than his old adversary.

The manicurist's grinder whined away occluding most of the audio of the report on the bizarre death of the unpopular and incompetent New York mayor, J. Robert Gomez, and the resultant power vacuum due to the disappearance of other key officials. Once Eichhorst's human façade was completely restored, he and Eldritch Palmer would fill that vacuum with a sympathiser of the Master's cause. And if one could not be readily found, he would make one.

The broadcast continued to show the unrest around the city following the collapse of vital infrastructure and services.

Michael finished his work in time for the newsreader's apparently innocuous concluding remarks to be clearly heard.

'And finally, our CEO personally requested we put out a bulletin asking this well-groomed man to come forward for an interview feature we want to commission.'

Suddenly, a still image of Eichhorst's head and shoulders as he left Stoneheart to attack the pawnshop filled the screen. He was the only one shown; his subordinates who definitively did not share his human appearance were not visible. Why? They must have footage of the other vampires. Why not show their white, bald heads and pointy ears and teeth?

The newscaster continued, 'He has been pictured fighting off a sword attack from a crazy old man...'

Now the television showed some video of Eichhorst evading Setrakian's sword swing at Grand Central Station. The quality was much better than you would usually expect from CCTV, although the image of Setrakian's face was blurred and there was no audio.

In fact, none of the clips had any audio, and the footage of Eichhorst in action was quite extensive, although the TV company had stopped short of exposing him as anything other than a sharp-suited crime fighter.

The broadcast went on. 'Here he is dispersing a group of youths causing a disturbance behind The Yummy Dragon Chinese restaurant in Harlem.'

The next video was of Eichhorst approaching Gus Elizalde to retrieve the Master's coffin from the airport. Gus' face was distorted like Setrakian's, but everyone else was seen clearly.

'…and even repelling an attack by two gang bangers…'

Finally, some video of Eichhorst in the sewers beneath Manhattan was shown. He watched himself being punched by Gus, who was blurry again, and disarming Felix, whose image was clearly shown.

The report concluded, 'With all this craziness in New York we _really_ need a hero and, of course,' the newscaster said archly, 'there is an opening in City Hall.'

'So, if anyone out there knows, or has seen Well Dressed Man…'

Eichhorst's smiling face again filled the screen with "WANTED The Well Dressed Man" underneath and a solitary landline number, rather than the usual text and mobile numbers and email, Facebook and Twitter addresses. The presenter read the phone number out with the comment, '…Or if the man himself isn't too shy to come forward, please give us a call on this number: 1-800-WELL-DRESSED.'

Michael finished his work and removed the face protector. With the nail-grinder silent, he could hear the television. Curiosity made him twist around on his haunches to see what the news company was allowed to report. He watched the Well Dressed Man appeal for a second or two and, pointedly not looking at his client, began packing away his equipment.

Michael wasn't stupid, he knew that the Stoneheart Corporation was somehow involved in the unrest and disappearances currently plaguing New York. He also knew that the slightly-built older gentleman whose grooming needs he had been meeting for the past few weeks was not a gentleman at all. His boyfriend had heard something about a late night broadcast by that rogue CDC doctor and Michael believed that Mr Eichhorst was exactly like that poor creature the doctor had been dissecting. He wished he'd asked Raoul for more details at the time but he hadn't returned from his night shift this morning and now Michael feared the worst.

It was a masterstroke on Stoneheart's part to ally themselves with FinchTV, he thought. Everyone believed Finch – impartial, unimpeachably truthful and always resolutely challenging the establishment's spin. He wondered briefly what Stoneheart could have done or said to buy Finch's compliance. Mostly he wondered if there were a reward for any information on the Well Dressed Man.

The Well Dressed Man himself just stared at the screen. It was impossible for Michael to tell if he was concerned about exposure or if his vanity had been massaged by the publicity. Perhaps, he had actively courted it. Or perhaps this was Finch's way of covertly rebelling. He longed to know what effect the broadcast had had on his client but the unpalatable truth was that he was terrified of him. Despite being young and strong, Michael felt intimidated by the aura of suppressed power the smaller man exuded.

The silence grew painful and there was still no movement from Eichhorst. Finally, Michael was unable to resist a glance up at him any longer. He raised his eyes for a moment and they met Eichhorst's looking down.

Oh God! He knows! The conviction that Eichhorst could read his mind hit him like a weight and the urge to flee overwhelmed him. He stood up as slowly and steadily as he could. Eichhorst's unblinking gaze followed him as he straightened and walked quickly to the door. His shoulders relaxed as he turned the handle but it was too soon.

'Wait,' said Eichhorst.

Michael turned helplessly into a face full of edges.


	2. Chapter 2

You'll Be Surprised

 **Author's Note: I took this (and the third chapter) down because it flopped originally. Re-posting now in hope!**

* * *

Midtown Manhattan – Present Day

In an immaculate windowless office across town, a stunning blonde sat surrounded by banks of TV screens showing various news channels around the world. The only human touch was a digital photo frame on her desk currently showing a smiling blonde girl about five years old.

The woman was wearing a beautifully tailored trouser suit over a polo necked blouse. A silver-coloured metal locket rested on the silk over her throat. White gloves completed the picture of fastidious elegance.

She was rewinding, fast-forwarding, pausing and generally scrutinising the film of Well Dressed Man. Unlike the public broadcast, she had access to uncut footage with full audio recording.

Sandra Edwards was the only creature on the face of the planet who would cheerfully have swapped places with Michael right then. She was desperate to know how Eichhorst had reacted to seeing his face all over the news. Had he got it? Understood the reference? Did he suspect her involvement? He would be bound to investigate, to follow up his suspicions, but she had taken precautions. Was he as conflicted as she was about a possible reconnection?

Nothing she'd experienced and no one she'd encountered in all the years since Eichhorst had ever matched up. Childbirth had hardly been as frightening or as painful and no love had ever had the depth or intensity of the hatred she felt for him.

God, how she'd missed him.

The truth was that Sandra embraced what Professor Setrakian could or would not accept. That when a monster had you at his mercy and showed you even a little kindness, you were his. Forever.

But she was a monster too, now. And she was going to be _really_ kind to him. She was going to give Eichhorst the gift he would never admit to wanting.

She leant forward and focussed her attention on a surprisingly clear video recording of Eichhorst's interview with Setrakian in the police station. Sandra didn't see a face full of edges but one sculpted by a genius at the height of their powers. She smiled delightedly as Eichhorst contorted his perfect Aryan features into a Hogarthian image of evil.

'Thomas Eichhorst,' she purred, softening the sharp syllables into something like a poem… or a prayer. If there were any justice, someone who looked like her would have a voice like a cat fight. Instead, it was low and pleasant despite the clipped tones of a crisp English accent.

Setrakian's face, beard bristling with impotent fury, was plainly visible in this footage. There had been no need to obscure him in any way because it was edited out of the final broadcast. It hadn't fit with the narrative of a suited folk hero fighting crime on the mean streets of New York City.

'But you were not there to help her,' said Eichhorst silkily. 'Do you feel great regret?'

Sandra tilted her head back, thinking bitterly of the time when she _was_ there to help Corey but didn't. Not that she could have done anything to protect him from Eichhorst and he had begged her to flee, to save herself and their unborn child. She closed her eyes and drifted into a trance of shame and resentment for a moment.

'You let me go,' she whispered reproachfully at the ceiling.

She shook her head and recovered her composure. She would not be a victim. Not ever. Not even in her own mind. He had enabled her escape and that was a good thing.

She flicked over to footage of the _strigoi_ squad heading to Setrakian's pawnshop, and zoomed in on Eichhorst's face. He was smiling in anticipation of a triumph that had not come. She bit the end of a glove-finger and eased it off. It was an unnecessarily sensual movement for someone on her own.

Ignoring the unnatural faces of the undisguised vampires, she touched Eichhorst's image as if it were the original himself beneath her trembling fingers. 'Have you put weight on? Is the hunting good for you in the Master's city?' she breathed. 'It suits you. Makes you look younger.'

Next for her perusal was the scene beneath Stoneheart as he confronted Gus and Felix. This segment was prepared for transmission, so Gus' face was blurred throughout. Sandra paused and zoomed into a shot where a lock of silver hair had fallen over Eichhorst's forehead. She tenderly traced the outlines of his face, a strange wistful smile, almost of adoration, playing on her lips. She made a little movement across his forehead, as if trying to brush the dislodged strands of hair back into place and then fast-forwarded to a particular piece of dialogue that she viewed again and again.

'What I find fascinating,' mused the on-screen Eichhorst, 'is that love is considered a gift, a blessing, with no acceptance to the fact that it also binds, and chokes, and strangles.'

'Who was she, Eichhorst?' Sandra whispered eventually. 'Who damaged you so badly to make you choose this way?'

Perhaps it hadn't been the girl in the peasant dress. She knew it wasn't Helga or any of the others he'd dressed her up as - girls without names or stories. Perhaps it wasn't a "she" at all?

She switched to the video of the confrontation between Eichhorst and Professor Setrakian at Grand Central Station.

'You haven't stopped obsessing about _him_ have you?' she muttered, with a sullen hint of jealousy.

How had she come to this? Jealous of a ninety-year-old man? Wanting someone she _could not_ have? She'd wanted plenty of men she _ought_ not to have and she tended to just bash on in and have them anyway. But Eichhorst…? She'd never wanted anyone before or since who didn't desire her in return and she knew that, as a vampire, he was biologically incapable of reciprocating.

Her tablet chirping derailed her thoughts and she swivelled round to pick it up. Eldritch Palmer had sent an email. He was such a sweetie. If she had even a fragment of humanity left, she should have been sorry to involve him. She smiled and dashed off a reply before returning to her Eichhorst-centric reverie.

At least she'd managed to work out his pattern and to manipulate it, to train him in a way…

A really grubby smile curled the corners of her mouth as her mind wandered back to Berlin.


	3. Chapter 3

You'll Be Surprised

Eichhorst's pad

'Wait,' said Eichhorst.

Michael looked helplessly into the vampire's face.

Would Michael agree with Sandra that it was chiselled? Certainly. By a genius? Possibly. But a genius in a very odd mood! One who'd approached a brief for perfect male beauty in the Nordic style only after he'd rowed with the wife or trodden on an upturned plug.

The sculptor had taken too much out of the cheeks and the jawline could crack rocks. No curves softened the hardness of expression and Michael knew that the mind behind it would be just as sharp and cruel as the exterior. He realised with a jolt that this would be the last face he ever saw.

The face tried to smile reassuringly, but there were too many teeth.

'You haven't trimmed my ears yet,' said Eichhorst.

Michael's sigh of relief was audible.

As Eichhorst led the way into his dressing room and took a seat opposite the mirror, Michael briefly reconsidered an escape attempt. He knew the vampire was too fast though, and maybe, if he played nice and did as he was told, he could get out of the Stoneheart building and into the sun. And never spend another night in New York again. Maybe…

Eichhorst removed his prosthetic ears. The points on his real, vampiric ears were growing back rapidly and they needed to be a more rounded human shape for the prosthetics to fit. He unlocked a drawer on his dressing table and handed Michael the shears.

Michael knew that the blades were edged with a special metal that cauterised the wounds and delayed regrowth. He set his jaw in a grimace of resolve. He hated this part of the job. The cartilaginous crunch reminded him of teenage summers ear-notching the piglets back home.

It might have been better if his client had squealed like the baby swine but he kept silent, his body rigid with the strain of maintaining his dignity, his own jaw clenched, less against the pain of cutting than the burn of the silver-edged blades. The white flesh sizzled between the shears emitting a foul-smelling smoke.

Michael willed himself not to gag. And then it was over at last, both of them sighing with released tension.

He hesitated to surrender the shears into the outstretched hand. He knew these were the only things in the apartment that could hurt his client. There was another taut silence before Eichhorst distracted him with a question that Michael could never have anticipated.

'Do you believe I am a hero?'

Michael thought that he'd believe anything his client wanted for a chance of getting out of that apartment alive and human, shears or no shears.

Eichhorst sighed. He could see it in the boy's eyes - so clearly it might have been a thought bubble in a comic book. He wasn't particularly empathic, he'd just seen it so many times before. Only two of his captives had ever spoken their mind and only one of them had done so unprompted.

Yes, he remembered sourly, unprompted, impudently and without ceasing. That reminded him…

'I did save a human life once,' Eichhorst mused, making Michael goggle at him. Was he trying to make a connection? Now, after six weeks of brisk taciturnity? He didn't know how to respond, but his client didn't seem to need an answer.

'Although I'm not sure it was a life worth saving,' Eichhorst finished, retrieving the silver-edged scissors from the manicurist's flaccid hands. He locked them safely away to cover his own confusion.

What had suddenly brought _her_ to mind, after all this time? Eichhorst wondered. His thoughts had been so full of the Jew and this last great thrust of the Master's campaign, that he hadn't had room for anyone else. Why _her_? Why that…that creature? And why now? What had jogged those particular memories?

He paced the room for a bit, retracing his thoughts along with his steps. Michael took advantage of the distraction to sidle towards the door.

He'd nearly made it for a second time but, out of nowhere, Eichhorst was suddenly between him and safety, and far too close to him. Michael took a pace backwards to restore his personal space.

The move distracted Eichhorst again. That was another thing about Sandra Edwards, _she_ had closed the gap when it should always be him. The old Jew never stepped back either. He was the only other person unafraid of him but the girl had stepped _in_. And she'd turned her back on him. In fact, the very first time she'd spoken to him, the little louse had turned away from him. No one did that to him unless they were running away.

Eichhorst stepped forwards again, reassuring himself that Michael was reacting normally. The boy scampered backwards and tripped over a stool. As he reached back to break his fall, he landed on the remote making the television rewind to the Well Dressed Man appeal.

Eichhorst pounced like a leopard, pinning Michael to the floor by the wrists and straddling his body just as the television announced, '…well-groomed man to come forward for an interview feature…'

Eichhorst froze and stared at it again. 'Of course. An interview…' he whispered. '…with the vampire.' He smiled absently but there was a trace of concern behind it.

A feeble struggle from the man beneath him brought him back to the now. Eichhorst smiled at him.

'I am sorry, Michael,' he said gently. 'I would have liked to make you last.'

He meant it, too, but now he had a pressing need to examine the sewers where he'd confronted Gus and Felix. Her? Here, in New York? Now? With all the other challenges facing him, he needed this complication like a silver enema.

He got to his feet and allowed the boy to stand before he lifted him over his shoulder and carried him, struggling like a landed eel, to the bathroom.

Eichhorst pitched him backwards over the edge of his bath, so far that the boy's eyes were beneath the surface of the blood that partially filled it. Michael was thrashing about, terrified and incoherent, but he didn't want to push him under and let him drown, not until every last drop of Aryan blood had been harvested.

He stroked his thumbnail expertly down Michael's jugular groove from his collarbone to the angle of his jaw, incising the skin and pushing the crimson muscles and the bluish jugular vein aside in one smooth movement.

His nails were always slightly blunter after a manicure but with enough force they still functioned as watched the white carotid bounding with the boy's fear.

He withdrew his hand and licked his fingers. With the pressure on his neck temporarily released, Michael was able to raise his head and scream.

Eichhorst stared impassively into the panic-filled blue eyes for a moment as the boy flailed about in agonal terror. He was making too much noise, with all the yelling and his arms and legs banging into the wall of the bath. The bathroom wasn't as well soundproofed as the purpose-built feeding room.

He reinserted his hand and transected the boy's trachea just beneath the larynx. The breath puffed in and out from the severed end of the windpipe and the proximity of the now-isolated larynx meant that some noise still escaped. Eichhorst pulled the cranial end of the trachea out of Michael's neck with a nasty gristly sound. He could still breathe, although the sensation of his windpipe flapping about loose caused another paroxysm of horror. He curtailed it by slitting the carotid artery down the whole of its exposed length. Michael pumped himself empty in a few gorily spectacular seconds and was dead before he finished twitching.

Eichhorst watched the scarlet liquid spurting into his bath and was reminded again of Sandra, this time the exquisite taste of her blood. He wondered how she tasted now. Had she soured with age? Or matured like a fine wine?

He massaged the end of his stinger until he ejaculated a quantity of anticoagulant "saliva" into his bloodbath. The action reminded him of some of her more exotic suggestions. He shook his head at the memories of the dreadful creature but there was the shade of a smile there too.

Any other man would have dwelt on Sandra's Disney-princess beauty and golden brown voice but to Eichhorst she was nothing more than the most aggravating and importunate individual he'd ever had the misfortune to find delicious.

Still, he'd managed to train her eventually. After a fashion.


	4. Chapter 4

You'll Be Surprised  
Chapter Four

* * *

 **Author's Note: I think the best thing I can do for this fic is to get Sandra chained up in Eichhorst's Berlin dungeon back in 1989 as soon as I reasonably can. Unfortunately, some preamble is unavoidable, so here it is.**

* * *

 _It's not a very promising start to a love story is it? She hates him and he's all but forgotten_ her _! Especially as it isn't the start at all but twenty five years into the romance._

 _Perhaps we ought to go back to the start, to the very beginning of their tale…But when was that? When they met? When Sandra was kidnapped from her fiancé's side? Or before that? When Sandra met Setrakian? When she met Corey?_

 _Should we learn all of Sandra's romantic history – discover why she isn't afraid of a little slap and nibble? Should we delve even further back in time and explore Eichhorst's experiences in the field of love._

 _We could just wait until they gradually tell each other all about themselves and see how much they are prepared to reveal and how fast. And whether we even believe what they say…_

 _For now though, back to the present…_

* * *

Midtown Manhattan – Present  
Sandra's Office

Sandra returned from pleasant reflections over how she believed she had trained Eichhorst. It had really just been a matter of discovering his levers, she thought smugly. She came back to reality gradually, slowly re-focussing on articles from the present.

The photo frame was first to catch her eye. Because there was _her_ lever, looking innocently back at her - the blonde girl from before, now about eighteen months old, chewing thoughtfully on a rubber turkey while a Rottweiler, presumably the owner of the toy turkey, watched covetously. Cornelia was her only weakness and she must get her to safety before she took another provocative step in pursuit of Eichhorst. She had planned it all so carefully - recommended her for a job that would earn her the money to buy her way out of the city; nudged her into the path of the only man who could protect and teach her; watched her even more closely than she had Eichhorst and assiduously preserved the UK as a sanctuary nation free from _strigoi_. Naturally, Cornelia would want to return to her mother's country, the islands that had reared her; her British passport would allow it and Sandra's connections would strenuously promote it. It was surely only a question of time before she heard of her daughter's safe arrival home.

Before Sandra could begin to worry that her daughter might have inherited some of her stubbornness, the photo frame had cycled again. This time, it showed a family group; four generations of handsome blond-haired, blue-eyed faces smiled out over a birthday cake bearing the number "70" in candles. Sandra picked up the frame and tapped the side to freeze this image. Close up, a date stamp of "25.08.89" was visible. She smiled wistfully as she gazed at the picture. It wasn't her family but she took particular notice of the two men in their late twenties. Tellingly, it was only a fraction of the attention she'd paid to Eichhorst's image.

Ah yes, she mused, the Henke-De Bakker clan. Between them, she and Eichhorst had ripped the living heart out of that family. There were only two members left alive and neither of them would have anything to do with her anymore. That was probably best for them, she thought grimly.

She remembered it all. It made no sense, she appeared to be only in her early thirties now, but she remembered turning eighteen in early '89.

* * *

Cambridge, United Kingdom - January 1989

She was studying for her A levels but she stayed with her boyfriend James in Cambridge at the weekends. He was on duty that Saturday and had been called to the hospital for a colic. His field was equine reproduction and there weren't many emergencies in infertility but he'd said he had to take his place in the on-call rota with the others. She hadn't questioned him and had always just headed into town to hit one of the libraries. She usually went to St John's as it had a male librarian who would let her in for a smile and a flash of thigh as she sat down, but last time a woman was at the desk and the ugly old bag barred her way. So this time, she went to Queens' where she was certain of a warmer reception.

It was an opportunity to discover more about the rumours of a secret room and a silver box full of mystical writings. She tucked her favourite Anne Rice book into her school bag and headed into town, still smarting sweetly from the previous night's spanking. She didn't really believe the stories James had told her but was curious anyway. She flirted her way into the main library, where only Cambridge University students and alumni were really allowed, but the secret room and mysterious texts turned out to be either make-believe or beyond the knowledge of her acne-afflicted guide. Keen to assuage her obvious disappointment, and spotting her copy of _Interview with the Vampire_ , he offered to show her the library's collection of vampire mythology that, coincidentally, was housed in a very secluded aisle.

Ignoring his clumsy attempts to seduce her, she perused the extensive range of books. Most were ancient and clearly works of fantasy but two were much more modern. The urgently titled _Vampires: Real, Here And Trying To Kill You_ _Now_ and the more academic-sounding _A Verified Compendium Of Vampiric Lore_ , both written by an A. A. Setrakian caught her eye. She pulled them off the shelves and coquettishly asked her new friend if there were a private reading room where they could examine them.

He couldn't believe his good fortune and while he was gone to blag a key from somewhere, Sandra opened the front of the older book. It had been written in the early fifties and the author photograph showed a handsome and unfeasibly young academic. The feverish tone of the title was continued in the text. Opening it at random, she found what purported to be the writer's eyewitness account of an encounter with an actual vampire. It sounded ridiculous and nothing like Ms Rice's descriptions. Setrakian's vampires were horrible demonic things. They had been people once - this one had been a guard at the concentration camp Setrakian had been imprisoned in during the war. But unlike all the vampires she'd read about in books, it retained no humanity - no memories, no ability for speech or communication of any kind. It seemed more like a zombie than a vampire. She closed it in disgust and awkwardly shuffled the heavy books so the other was on top.

This volume was newer by nearly twenty years and the author was correspondingly older in his photograph – older, wearier and sadder she thought… but still handsome she couldn't help noticing.

And that admiration was the uninspiring basis of her fascination with Professor Abraham Aaron Setrakian and his work. She left the library before her amorous companion returned, resolving to research this professor whenever she had some spare time.

She started by writing to his university in Austria and eventually received a forwarding address of a PO Box in New York City. Apparently, the professor had become something of an eccentric recluse in his later years and his exact whereabouts were unknown to anyone. Initially, he refused even to enter into a written correspondence with her but some weeks later a Dutch Mossad agent separately tracked him down and convinced him that she was genuine and posed no threat.

And so she found herself lying naked on a bunk in a first class cabin on the Harwich to the Hook night sailing…

* * *

North Sea - August 1989

She had only booked a standard single but a bit of flirting with the chief steward got her upgraded and she waited now for him to come and claim on the implied promise of a reward. Sandra was very happy to oblige. He was cute and she enjoyed sex. She had packed a shedload of Extra Safe and would insist on their use (she was a smart girl and it was the eighties) and at eighteen she was already on her second coil.

She thought she'd seen a ring as the steward had showed her the way in but she figured that that was _his_ problem. _She_ was single and didn't feel she should be held responsible for any man's moral shortcomings. Just as that slutty student, whose nipples entered a room five minutes before the rest of her, wasn't to blame for James' cheating on her…

No, she was single and she hadn't a notion of meeting anyone shaggable in this first part of her travels. Sure, Professor Setrakian had been hot in his twenties and thirties and attractive even in his forties, but he was in his mid-sixties and her interest in him was now strictly intellectual. And as for this Mossad guy who was supposed to meet her off the ferry…

Sandra didn't consider herself racist but she did hold some archaic preconceptions of various cultures. For instance, she thought of Jews in terms of race rather than faith and she firmly believed they all looked like Leon Brittan. So deep-seated was this prejudice, and so narrow her perception of Jewish family names, that she presumed the handsome professor Setrakian was interned during the war for political reasons rather than as part of Hitler's Final Solution.

At least this guy, (he had a funny name, Mr Hanky or something like that…) this Mossad guy had helped persuade Professor Setrakian to leave his American sanctuary and return to Europe. The older man was extremely reluctant and would only do it if both of them could meet him at the same time. He said he wanted "to get both birds with one stone to minimise his time in mainland Europe".

She had become so interested in Setrakian and his lurid vampire tales that she had taken up an offer to study in America. Boston wasn't that far from New York she reasoned, plus she had decided to take a year off before her studies. She planned to travel, starting with interrailing around Europe, maybe even trying to visit some of the former Eastern Bloc countries as they opened up. She had long fancied walking in the footsteps of Louis and Claudia – like them, seeking vampires or at least learning more about them and their folklore. She was fascinated by the idea of vampires particularly the sensuality, even eroticism, of the vampire myth. She wasn't much given to self-analysis but she thought the appeal was partly that vampires combined the experience and emotional maturity of older men with the vigour and physical beauty of young ones. It didn't even faze Sandra that Anne Rice's vampires experienced desire as a more generalised lust rather than simple animal sexuality. They were still seductive and darkly, powerfully alluring.

Anyway, Sandra's sexy steward didn't show up and she fell asleep, lulled by her morning lark metabolism and the gentle rise and fall of the ship on the waves. She was annoyed and frustrated in the morning but she dealt with that herself in the shower with the help of Lestat and prepared to disembark.

* * *

Hoek van Holland Ferry Terminal and then Maastricht, Netherlands - August 1989

She dressed with no other aim than to show to Mr Mossad that she ought to be taken seriously and she regretted the slightly tomboyish result the moment she saw the gorgeous young man holding her name board. Late twenties, six-foot-two, dark blond hair, turquoise eyes sparkling with humour (and what she fervently hoped was admiration of her despite the ponytail and lack of make-up), not to mention cheekbones she could use for climbing. Why the bloody hell hadn't she put some lippie and mascara on at the very least? She surreptitiously bit and licked her lips, trying to make them seem glossed.

He was shy and awkward and to her shock, she realised that she was too. Nobody had ever had that effect on her before. His English was perfect and he was polite and charming, so much so she forgave his derision over her vampire fascination. And he forgave _her_ for misleading him about her age and journalism experience. He was kind and decent and for Sandra this held the attraction of novelty since she had previously always been drawn to bad boys. But most devastating of all, he was a bona fide, real life action hero - a Dutchman trained and engaged by Israel's national intelligence agency to hunt down Nazis that others had given up as dead. His name was Cornelius "Corey" Henke and an unprepared Sandra was falling in love for the first time.

He introduced her to his family – the family in the present day photograph, the family that she and Eichhorst had destroyed: Geeky but cute younger brother Bart, who forgot how to speak when she smiled at him; Mum Gude, who had raised the boys single-handedly - she was protective but warm and ready to be amused at everything; Grandfather ( _Opa_ ) Pieter, who seemed to be celebrating his seventieth birthday fifteen years early and finally, his great-grandmother ( _Oma)_ Sarah.

Sarah was the one who made the greatest impact on Sandra; the girl felt an immediate connection with the old lady. Corey had explained that his _Oma's_ suffering in the war was a key motivation in his pursuit of Nazis. She had been widowed and nearly raped during the occupation, yet she still retained sufficient grace to engrave a silver locket with some lines of acceptance and forgiveness. She would not tolerate anyone judging an individual (negatively or positively) by something as superficial as nationality believing instead that each human being was unique and special and deserved to be judged by their actions.

Corey now wore this locket, engraved with a further line specific to his Mossad work, as a reminder to avoid confusing justice with revenge. The stories only made Sandra love him and his family more.

* * *

Maastricht, Netherlands - Autumn 1989

Theirs was a pretty whirlwind romance but it seemed to Sandra as if it took ages for Corey to make a move and she couldn't understand why. She imagined all sorts of explanations: He was religious in a no-sex-before-marriage kind of way; He only dated Jewish girls; He only dated Dutch girls; He only dated guys; He didn't date at all because he might have to seduce the whereabouts of an old Nazi out of some hot Fraulein; She even briefly considered that he simply might not find her attractive but that was clearly ridiculous.

In the end, the real reason was much simpler. He was just worried that he was too old for her.

Hah!

When they "finally" consummated their relationship, it was actually less than a fortnight after they met. The sex was all fairly standard stuff compared to what she'd known before but Sandra came to acknowledge what she'd previously scoffed at – that making love, actual _love_ , was far wilder and more dangerous than anything James had done to her in the tack room.

For some reason, Professor Setrakian deferred their scheduled meeting. He had been cautious before but now he seemed positively nervous, traumatised even. When they met up with him at last, many weeks later than they'd arranged, Corey had already proposed and she had accepted.

* * *

West Berlin - Autumn 1989

Professor Setrakian insisted they met him off a midmorning arrival and Sandra was fairly certain he checked her pulse when he shook her hand. It was all very odd but she was keen to hear his stories first-hand and prepared to put up with a little senile paranoia. They went straight to the Free University from Tegel airport because the professor was so loath to waste a single second of his time in West Germany. And that's where Sandra's life changed completely.

She told Corey he could go first because he was 'dealing with real life justice' whereas she was only interested in hearing vampire stories. He nodded graciously, leafed through his file and placed a black and white, A5-sized photograph of a fifty-something man in the uniform of an SS-Sturmbannführer on the desk. He pointed at it hard, announcing, 'Commandant Thomas Eichhorst.'

Sandra was mildly surprised that the monster her fiancé was hunting was actually quite an attractive middle-aged man and, not being given to internal musings, she said so aloud.

'Oh, he's kind of handsome isn't he?'

Corey and Professor Setrakian snapped up to look at her with utter disgust.

'Yuh!' Corey exclaimed with a hint of jealousy. 'For a guy old enough to be your grandfather! Not to mention an evil mass murderer.'

'Sorry,' Sandra said quickly. She wanted another, closer look but Corey was right, the commandant _was_ evil. Corey was the good guy, hunting down wickedness even as it neared a natural death of old age. She shrugged and wandered off to browse the bookshelves.

The professor's late friend Dr David Kaplan, whose office this was, hadn't been a folklorist like Setrakian so the books were dry legal texts and Sandra's attention remained with her two companions and the photographs they were examining.

Behind his spectacles, Professor Setrakian's eyes kept sliding across to the commandant's picture but when Corey placed a second photograph on the desk, the old man jerked away from it as if in horror. Corey pointed at this image in the same way, as if trying to poke the Nazi's eye out. 'Doctor Werner Dreverhaven,' he said. Then he turned to Sandra and asked her sarcastically, 'You don't fancy him as well do you?'

She turned round and glanced quickly at the picture. 'No,' she said, before really registering what he looked like. 'And I don't "fancy" that other guy. I just expected someone _that_ nasty to be physically distorted in some way.'

'Yes,' sighed Setrakian. 'It is part of the puzzle, isn't it? How can an apparently normal human being be capable of such monstrous cruelty? These Nazis had wives and families that they loved and cared for - although not these particular individuals - yet their working lives were dedicated to wiping other people's families off the face of the earth. Including mine. Eichhorst was bad enough, although he tended to distance himself from the dirtier aspects of camp life. _Herr Doktor_ , on the other hand, positively gloried in it. The nastier and sicker the perversion, the better.'

'I'm so sorry,' she said, truly contrite. 'I didn't think. Besides even if they're still alive, they've got to be ninety or a hundred years old.'

Corey triumphantly slapped down two other A5 images with the air of someone revealing a royal flush. This time two very elderly men stared up at them. 'These are age-adjusted photographs of them.'

Setrakian reached into his Gladstone bag, withdrew a massive ancient tome and opened it at a bookmarked page. He placed it on top of the four photographs and stood back to await their reaction. A hand-drawn image of a mature naked _strigoi_ was displayed. It had no nose, no hair, no genitals, the throat folds were unhidden and guillotine-shaped incisors were revealed in a hideous grimace. The creature's skin was a sickly ivory colour and its eyes were black with red edges.

'This is how they look now,' he declared.

The youngsters gaped at him.

* * *

 **Author's Note: We will rejoin Herr Eichhorst next time I promise, and I really hope that it'll be soon.**


	5. Chapter 5

You'll Be Surprised  
Chapter Five

* * *

Eichhorst's Apartment, Stoneheart Building, Manhattan - Present

Thomas Eichhorst straightened up and wondered if it were worth trying to use his stinger to suck out the last drops of blood lurking in Michael's vessels. He'd rather not waste any; it was so difficult to find purebred Aryans in this filthy cosmopolis. Mid-western farmboys were his last recourse…or farm _girls_ , at a pinch.

Many people have noticed that Eichhorst fed primarily on young men these days and some have presumed that this was a predilection carried over from his lifetime – a sexual inclination towards men that had translated into a preference for their blood.

This was not the case.

Eichhorst mainly hunted men for three simple reasons. Firstly, it was easier. Even before the Master's arrival, women in any large city tended to travel in pairs or groups after dark, whereas men would occasionally go it alone. Secondly, there was simply more blood in a man. Finally, from an aesthetic perspective, women were prone to "taint"; either their blood would be contaminated by contraceptive hormones or their natural bouquet would be masked by perfume. The latter issue was also becoming more of a trend in the modern male and Eichhorst did not approve.

But there had been another reason once and it was beginning to come back to him. He had begun to select young blond males in 2002. Boys first, about twelve years old (which caused no end of trouble) and gradually as the years passed, teenagers and then young men. It had become so much a part of his routine procedure that he'd forgotten the root cause lay, once again, with Sandra Edwards.

In Michael's case, he made a swift decision. He opted not to waste time on matters of pleasure. He was adequately fuelled after finishing the latest offering in the feeding room and other concerns were much more urgent. He left Michael where he lay and headed back to the living room. He didn't even stop to change his blood-spattered shirt, just re-fastened the buttons of his jacket.

He quick-dialled the new security chief from the phone on the desk. Cellphone signal strength had been poor down in the basement, even before Miss Velders' intervention.

'Good morning, Mr Fitz...Mr Robinson.' He didn't wait for his greeting to be returned. And he didn't need to give his own name – everyone would know who he was. 'I want Eldritch to arrange a meeting with the CEO of FinchTV tonight. In the meantime, I need all the information Stoneheart has on this man … and his wife, girlfriend, mistress or whatever she calls herself. All the women in his life are to be profiled.' He paused for a moment, thinking, then he added doubtfully, 'It is possible she may be only a business associate, so include them too.'

She was there, he knew it, somewhere around the Finch boss - pulling strings, exerting pressure, coaxing, cajoling and seducing. He barked a complacent little laugh. At least _he_ would always be immune to that particular weapon.

'Oh and Robinson,' he added. 'Clear up the mess in my bathroom.'

He reached for his prosthetic ears but pulled back. It would be a waste of precious time – no one who might possibly see him like this would leave the sewer alive…Well, maybe one person – and only if she would leave with him. Besides, she already knew what he really looked like.

He paused again, mulling that thought over with his head cocked. Yes, she did know, didn't she? She knew his secret and could have exposed him as an immortal rather than "The Well Dressed Man". That news clip had all been a power play! An elaborately designed power play especially for his benefit. He chuckled at the realisation. This was going to be so much _fun_! He strode off down the corridor grinning.

* * *

Sewers beneath Stoneheart Building

His memories distracted Eichhorst agreeably until he reached the iron gate marking the scene of his meeting with Gus and his corpulent friend. That would have to be properly secured now that he knew this sewer was compromised.

He couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary initially - nothing but the distant stench of effluent. He examined the whole area in minute detail, even feeling the walls where, judging from the angle of the footage, the cameras must have been fixed. And there he found the holes. Not clusters of screw-holes for the mounting of large cameras - he would have noticed those even if the humans hadn't – but little, filled-in holes where the tiny cameras and microphones must have been set into the walls themselves.

He flicked his stinger out and quickly in again, tasting the air. There was a weak smell of cleaning fluid but no indication that a human had ever been here. So…she'd had it sanitised after removing the surveillance equipment. Smart. He sampled the air again, this time using the whole stinger – letting the scent molecules contact the entire length. The stinger shaft was not particularly sensitive to smell but the papillae at the root were full of chemoreceptors. It felt odd to have it flapping away loose like this, without anchoring the other end to a human but he liked the way the stinger felt as the slight air currents played along it. He also spread the fang stalks wide and sucked in some air, engaging the taste sensors deep inside.

The cleaning compound was stronger but …there! Right next to the holes, where the cement was barely dry, he got traces of a faint chemical odour, plasticky almost...

A hazmat suit! That's why he couldn't smell the blood of the human that had made good the tunnel walls! Unusually this was a fresh suit rather than an out-of-date one purchased after 9/11 and left to gather dust at the bottom of a janitor's closet until this new emergency. And it had been expertly donned by someone well-drilled in emergency procedures. He could tell that because an inept wearer shed enough sweat, skin cells and cologne putting a suit on that he could smell them with his mouth shut.

This time he didn't feel impressed with her initiative. He was disappointed again. More than disappointed, in fact. He felt cheated of the encounter. And a worm of doubt was beginning to wriggle in. _She_ would have left him a message, a trace of her scent or even a drop of her blood – something to let him know it was she who wielded this power over him. This caginess was out of character for her. He began to wonder if someone else was behind it all. But if not her, then who? Who else would have the inside knowledge, the resources and the…? …Eldritch Palmer. Of course.

He turned on his heel and sped back to his dressing room. If he was visiting the upper levels of the Stoneheart building he wanted to appear like all the other occupants.

* * *

Main Elevator, Stoneheart Building

A few minutes later, in prosthetic ears and fresh clothes, he exited the elevator to find Robinson the new security chief waiting for him. He was holding something out in the manner of a peace offering. It was a Stoneheart-logoed plastic folder. It was very thin.

'That was quick,' said Eichhorst approvingly as he took the proffered file.

This was another bonus of the fall of the internet and cellphone networks – he received his briefings in the traditional format rather than having to deal with modern technology. _Strigoi_ were incapable of learning as humans did, so every time a new generation of technology was rolled out he had to acquire the ability to interact with it effectively from an assimilated human mind via his master.

But even Eichhorst 1.0 had thoroughly understood the workings of pen and paper and possessed an excellent facility for spoken and written English.

He smiled faintly as he opened the folder. The smile faded abruptly as he examined its contents.

The first printed sheet declared:

 **Dossier on:**

 **MR ALEC FFINCH-MYLES**  
 **Chief Executive Officer of FinchCorp**

 **Prepared for Mr Thomas H. Eichhorst**

 **By**

 **J. E. Robinson & T. M. Standard**

 **Date: February 18 201…**

Eichhorst's thumb obscured the year.

The second sheet announced the following details:

 **Name: Mr Alec ffinch-Myles**

 **Date of birth: Unknown**

 **Place of birth: United Kingdom (Presumed)**

 **Nationality: British**

 **Company(ies): FinchCorp (? – Present)**

 **Position(s): CEO (? – Present)**

 **Address: Finch Tower, 32 West 58th Street, Manhattan, New York**

 **Family: Unknown**

 **Romantic Attachments: Unknown**

 **Political Affiliation: Unknown**

 **Criminal Record: Unknown**

 **Financial Commitments: Unknown**

 **Known Associates: FinchCorp Board (names and addresses attached)**

 **Estimated Total Worth: $34.2 billion (pre-Crash)**

 **Estimated Liquid Assets: Unknown**

 **Strengths: Unknown**

 **Weaknesses: Unknown**

Eichhorst finished skimming the information and then made a show of examining the scant document again, searching both sides of each sheet and shaking the folder out to see if he'd missed something. He looked up at Robinson but said nothing. The big man swallowed. Eichhorst continued to stare silently. Robinson tried manfully to hold his gaze until his eyes watered, but eventually he was forced to concede, wondering if the scary little German had lizard in his ancestry.

Eichhorst accepted the other's surrender graciously and then said quietly, 'This is it, then? This is all we have on FinchCorp's CEO?'

'Yes, sir.' The big man took a breath and added apologetically, 'And I'm afraid a meeting with Mr ffinch-Myles is impossible, sir.''

There was more accusatory staring before Eichhorst said, 'Very well. Where is Eldritch now?'

'In the breakfast room, sir. But he asked not to be distur…'

But Eichhorst was already through the double doors.

* * *

Palmer's breakfast room, Stoneheart building

Eldritch Palmer had his back to the doors when Eichhorst entered. He had just finished a hearty breakfast and was rewinding the television for another viewing of the Well Dressed Man appeal.

He turned at the sound of the door clunking shut. He didn't seem annoyed, or even surprised to see that Eichhorst had flouted the "Do Not Disturb" instruction. His eyes rested on the silver burns on Eichhorst's face.

'Ooh, those wounds _are_ taking a long time to heal,' he said with relish. He paused the television programme with the "Wanted" image on it and pointed to the screen with the remote. 'It's OK he seems to have got your good side.'

Eichhorst glanced at the TV from the safety of the shadow of the doorway and commented coldly, 'I don't believe this man can be trusted.'

'Well, not that one, no,' Eldritch grinned, nodding at the picture of Eichhorst's face on screen. His newfound health following the Master's gift of White was making him feel mischievous.

When Eichhorst refused to take the bait, Palmer sighed and clicked across to the film currently being shown. FinchTV had cut _Zombieland_ to make it appropriate for a daytime audience.

'Why does he not agree to meet us? What does he hide?' asked Eichhorst.

'It's just his way. He doesn't meet anyone personally.'

'I don't like these films he shows.'

'They're just fillers between the newscasts. …which always toe our party line … this morning's little whimsy notwithstanding.'

Eichhorst watched a zombie decapitation and remarked flatly, 'This is an illustrated guide of how to kill us. I want to meet him.'

'Oh, it's just zombies,' said Palmer dismissively. 'Look, they never show _vampire_ movies not even that soppy teenage rubbish. I want to meet him too but the best I can do is the senior execs.'

'Invite him to your birthday celebration,' Eichhorst commanded.

'All right,' said Palmer. 'But if he shows up, try not to make yourself too offensive. You put people's backs up. We don't want him switching sides like Mr Fitzwilliam. And that Velders girl.' He paused for a second. '…Or your little courier fellow.' Another beat. '…Or your CDC contact.' He turned back to his companion. 'Good grief, Eichhorst, does everyone who meets you end up wanting to kill you?'

Eichhorst ignored him again and watched the television with his head on one side. 'Oh,' he added as an afterthought, 'I shall need a new manservant.'

He pretended not to hear Eldritch's unconcealed snigger and returned to the Finch puzzle.

Who was ffinch-Myles that Sandra had joined with him? Did she love him or was she only interested in his money and influence? Was he worthy of her? (...Only in genetic terms… Clearly, Eichhorst didn't care if he treated her well.) Or was this another mésalliance he would have to terminate?

And why was it so hard to arrange a meeting if he wanted an interview? Perhaps Eichhorst should give him what he had so publicly asked for…

* * *

32, West 58th Street, New York

Eichhorst looked up at the huge golden letters spelling out the name _Finch Tower_. Even the elevators from the underground car park to the atrium tried to tell him that he was a tiny person entering a big world – ffinch-Myles' world.

He grinned. The pompous fool was about to be shown how misinformed he was.

He stretched out a finger to call the elevator but froze at the last instant. The call button was made of solid silver. He was angry for a second but then realised that this confirmed his belief that _she_ was involved behind the scenes somehow. He wondered how to overcome this setback and was just about to resort to something as uncool as pulling his sleeve down over his hand to use it as a protective glove when a group of Chinese suits arrived.

Eichhorst smiled to show he wasn't a threat and joined them in the elevator. The buttons inside were also silver but there was only one choice of destination and one of the Asian delegation selected it. A recording of a voice announced, "Welcome to Finch Tower, New York City. Atrium level. Going up." It was a woman's voice, American, friendly but she wasn't finished.

'Ultraviolet pulse initiating,' she continued calmly. 'Please close your eyes. If you suffer from: porphyria, cancer of the skin or eye, sunlight allergy, vampirism or other photosensitive disorders, please exit the elevator now and follow the signs to the alternative entrance at street level.'

Eichhorst's head jerked up. One of the Chinamen nodded, 'Yeah, she _did_ say "vampirism". Gotta love the sense of humour,' he commented sarcastically, impatiently moshing the CLOSE DOORS button.

'He's kinduva germophobe, apparently,' said another.

So they were American then… Things were so much simpler when blood and borders correlated perfectly. Eichhorst felt disoriented and sluggish. Was there silver in the walls? He had to get out, clear his head, get away from the light and the cursed metal. But the doors were closing. He panicked and hit the OPEN DOORS icon with his bare hand.

He screamed in pain, not caring if anyone saw the smoke. 'Let me out!' he yelled. 'I can't be in here…I've a…condition. Yes, one of…what the voice said. Open the door, for the love of… _Scheisse! Mach die verdammte Tür auf!'_

Eichhorst stumbled out of the doors, dishevelled and panting as if he still needed the oxygen. Once safely in the dark and away from silver, he swept his hair out his eyes, readjusted his suit jacket and gathered his thoughts. Something about a street level entrance…

Very well, come nightfall, some people were going to get a nasty surprise. But nightfall was hours away. He had to spend the time wisely. There was one more line of enquiry he could follow to discover Sandra Edwards' weakness.

He could try to remember every little detail about their time together.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Please excuse my German.  
And Happy New Year.**


End file.
